


The Wind of the Wing

by otter



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otter/pseuds/otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's seen Jack in bad shape before, and they've always pulled through, together. He knows that this time they won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wind of the Wing

The thought starts out as an egg: it nestles warm and close in the back of his mind, and is silent and still, unobtrusive. Eventually, it begins to stir and wobble, and then it cracks, and the truth at the heart of it emerges, squalling, into the world. He feeds it, and nurtures it, without even thinking about whether he should, and then it's too late. The thought turns out to be a cuckoo. It grows too fast, it demands his constant attention, and it pushes other things from his mind. Reason is the first thing to go. Self-preservation and his grasp on reality follow. The thought crowds them out and they vanish; no doubt they'll shatter when they hit the ground. They're lost, either way, irretrievable.

Daniel meditates on this for a few minutes, the mental picture vivid and a little disturbing, but he's had worse thoughts to keep him company.

"To ancient people," he says aloud, "it's bad luck to harm a cuckoo. They bring good weather."

There's a grunt from the other side of the room. It isn't a sound that encourages further exposition.

"They lay eggs in other birds' nests," he continues, "that's where the word 'cuckold' comes from." He pauses, thinking. "Zeus won his wife Hera by disguising himself as a cuckoo caught in a rainstorm. When she took pity on the miserable bird, and pressed it to her breast to keep it warm, he revealed himself in his true form." He wonders if it's raining outside right now, but there's no way to know; there are no windows in his jail, and he can't hear anything of the outside world. There is absolutely nothing to distract him. The thought in his head -- the insidious brood parasite -- calls for his attention, and he tries to ignore it. "There's a legend that--"

"Daniel." The voice is rasping, weak, and it's followed closely by a wheezing cough. Daniel falls obediently silent. "I enjoy a story about breasts as much as the next guy, but now is not the time."

The traitorous cuckoo is perched on his tongue. When he opens his mouth to reply, it flies out. "I love you, Jack."

"I love you, too, Daniel," Jack wheezes back. His tone of voice says that for a genius, Daniel ought to have noticed that a lot sooner.

Like, say, before Jack acquired the gaping hole in his chest that will prevent them from ever doing anything about it.

Daniel squints at his friend, but finally lets his eyes fall shut, giving them a moment's rest. He's been in his fair share of cells and dungeons, but they're usually dark, damp, and drab. This one is the opposite: too clean, too bright, every surface relentlessly white and glaring. Even Daniel's own skin looks unnaturally pale and sallow under the lights. The only color is Jack, propped up against the opposite wall, and when Daniel closes his eyes, Jack's silhouette remains, burned into his retinas. The dirty, blood-stained green fatigues look darker than they are against all that brightness, and even the long, grotesque smear of blood that marks the wall above his body looks almost black.

He's seen Jack in bad shape before, and they've always pulled through, together. He knows that this time they won't. This time, Jack's already dead, it's just that he's stubbornly refusing to admit to the fact and instead continues to drag in slow, ragged breaths.

"I just thought I'd keep you company awhile longer," Jack says, as if he can read the thoughts that are rolling, slow and jumbled, through Daniel's mind. Daniel supposes that he probably can.

"I'm glad," Daniel says. "I don't want to be alone in here, Jack." The words stick in his throat a little; he doesn't want Jack to believe that Daniel is thinking only of himself. But Jack seems to understand, like he always does, and if his reassuring smile is a little pained, Daniel doesn't mention it.

When the door swings open, Daniel has time only to scramble into the nearest corner, but the two huge Jaffa are already upon him, and he knows from experience that fighting doesn't help much. Their fingers press into previously inflicted bruises, and Daniel is as easily subdued as he was the first time. Their master administers the drug himself, with the aid of his lo'taur; Daniel thinks that it may be a hallucinogen to aid in interrogation - twice already they've come in to ask him questions that he can't really understand around the drugs - but he doesn't really know. He thinks that the Goa'uld may be Janus - god of gates and doors, beginnings and endings, keeper of keys - but he doesn't know that, either. He doesn't know much at all, because whatever they're giving him only makes him more confused; his mind slows down after a shot, and so do his reflexes. When they release him, he doesn't bother to try to sit up, because the room is already spinning. Janus says something, but it echoes so much in Daniel's ears that he can't really hear.

He squints up at them, his head throbbing in protest as he tries to squint to block out the brightness, to see without his glasses, to actually focus on his captors despite the drugs. He says, "I don't know anything, honestly," but he isn't sure if they can understand what he says, because his voice sounds a little slurred, even to his own ears. "You should ask Jack the questions," he rasps out. He tries to swallow around the lump in his throat, and he thinks he might vomit. "Jack knows things. It's too bad he's too weak to talk because-"

The Goa'uld cuts him off sharply, but Daniel still can't make out the words; it's as if he's underwater. The snake's long coat swirls around his host's knees as he turns to leave, and the lo'taur and the two burly Jaffa follow to the exit; none of them give Jack a second look as they leave.

Daniel lets out the breath he's been holding, and slowly lets the tension ease from his body, giving in to the drug's sedative effects. He lets his head droop against the floor and looks over at Jack, who's watching him with a bemused and pained expression.

"Sorry," Daniel manages to breathe, though the sound is so quiet he doesn't think Jack can hear from where he is. "I didn't-"

"It's okay," Jack says. His voice sounds clear as crystal, though it's soft in deference to the obvious pounding in Daniel's head. "I don't think they have a sarcophagus or a healing device here, Daniel. If they did, they wouldn't use it on me."

Daniel grunts, glad that his friend has once again understood, but he's capable of no more communication. The cool, slow blackness rolls over him like the tide against the beach, and washes him gently away.

After awhile - a long time, he thinks, but it's impossible to tell - he hears Jack say, "Jesus Christ, Daniel, you look like shit."

He opens his eyes cautiously against the light, holding on tenaciously to each thin thread of wakefulness. "It's funny you should say so," Daniel answers, and he's proud when his voice only slurs over the first few words. "Because you look terrific. A regular Fred Astair."

He does, actually. Jack's up and walking around now; the blood that was on his uniform is still there, but through the charred and ragged hole in Jack's t-shirt, Daniel can see that the gaping chest wound is gone as if it had never been there. The blood that was on the wall has been washed away. There's an echo of footsteps from the hallway, but it fades away again, and doesn't approach.

Jack smiles at him and performs an awkward little shuffle that might've been an attempt at tap dancing. Daniel would've laughed, if he was awake enough to truly appreciate it, but at the moment all he can manage is a chuckle. He rolls himself onto his back, and then against the wall, where he struggles into a boneless sort of sitting position, with his legs sprawled out in front of him. Daniel says, "Sarcophagus?"

Jack crouches in front of him, warm and close. "Nah. Not that." He just stares for a moment, then another, so long that Daniel's just opening his mouth to request elaboration, when Jack leans swiftly forward and presses their lips together.

Daniel can only grunt his astonishment, because Jack's tongue is already in his mouth, searching and probing, skimming along his teeth. Jack's body - lean and hard and gloriously healthy - pushes him back into the strangely spongy too-white wall. Daniel wraps his fingers around Jack's arms and holds on for dear life, because this is what he wants, has always wanted, and he finally has it, even if it's the last thing he'll ever have.

Then Jack's tongue withdraws, and there's something else in their mouths between them. Daniel tries to scream when he feels a pointed tusk against his tongue, and the brush of a fin against the roof of his mouth. But Jack swallows the sounds, and the gentle hands that had rested lightly on his shoulders are digging in now, powerful and unyielding, pinning Daniel against the wall, The ferocious pressure of Jack's mouth holds Daniel's open, won't let him bite down on the unwanted intruder, which pokes around like a curious dog and leaves a taste in his mouth like blood.

When the visitor abruptly retreats, Jack releases Daniel with a matching suddenness, standing and retreating a few steps, staring down at him with eyes gleaming white enough to match the rest of their prison. A rush of elated relief skitters up Daniel's spine when he's set free, with the thing gone from his mouth, but the guilt follows immediately. He can't strangle a cry, half scream and half sob, as he wills his rubbery legs to work and tries to haul himself to his feet. His friend has been infected, turned into a host, and the only thought on his mind is that he's glad, so crushingly glad, that the thing stayed in Jack and didn't slither into him instead.

He hates himself for a moment, but it doesn't last. Panic overtakes the emotion, and he has to concentrate on breathing.

Jack - the thing that was Jack, once - is just staring at him. It moves nothing but its too-bright eyes, tracking his movements. "You wanted them to save me, Daniel," it says, finally. The voice isn't the deep and distorted tones of a Goa'uld; it's Jack's, familiar and soothing. "They did what you wanted."

"No," Daniel denies, and he shakes his head, but it feels pathetic that that's the best he can come up with. "I'm sorry, Jack."

It smiles a smile that belongs to his friend, a warm and beaming one without a trace of cruelty, but the quiet voice says, "You should be, Daniel."

Not-Jack walks toward the door, and it swings open as he approaches. The two Jaffa file in, the lo'taur behind them, and the Goa'uld somewhere in the back, waiting in the wings with another needle. "This can't be real," Daniel says, as Jack disappears out the door. Then he shouts it, louder, at the man's retreating back. "This can't be real!"

The Jaffa hold him down, the needle sinks into his arm, and Jack's just visible beyond the doorway, turned back to look at him. As the darkness rushes up to meet him again, he hears Jack say, "It isn't."

The next time he wakes, struggling out of the lethargic hold of the drugs, he's alone in the room. His face is wet, he's been crying in his sleep, and he tries to scrub the tears away with the backs of his hands as he hauls himself up against the wall again, his knees drawn to his chest. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, and he can't get them under control. Images from this prison, things he doesn't particularly want to know or remember, are mixed with those of the calm and regular world that he knew only yesterday. Working in his office, under the low light of a lamp. The snake in his mouth. Playing chess with Jack. Kissing Jack. He muffles a sob with a fist pressed against his lips, and swipes at his cheeks again.

In front of him, the door opens. Familiar faces file in, but they're not quite what he thought they were. He squints at them. He recognizes the Jaffa from before, but everything's out of context now, confused, muddled by the drugs. The man's not Jaffa at all, is he? The white uniform means something else, but Daniel can't remember what.

"Don't expect much," someone says. "If he becomes agitated, call the aides." And then the not-Jaffa leaves, and the not-Goa'uld goes with him, and Daniel is left alone with three indistinct blurred figures in green.

He squints at them, trying and failing to bring them into proper focus. "Jack?"

"It's us, Daniel," says a soft female voice. He knows that voice. "Can't you see us?"

He hesitates, tries to keep the hysterical sobs inside, and says, "I was just making sure you weren't figments of my... mind." He tries to smile with self-deprecation, but it comes out all wrong. "They took away my glasses," he explains, "in case I broke the lenses and uh, tried to... hurt myself."

They aren't sure what to say to that, he can tell. Finally Jack says, "They treating you okay?"

He wants to say no, because his arms are sore where they've held him down and jabbed him over and over, trying to force lucidity on him, like it's that easy to come by. "Yes." There's a snake in his ribcage - not the alien kind, the regular Earth kind - and when it slithers up from his stomach, into his throat, into his mouth, he realizes it's not a snake at all - like the cuckoo wasn't actually a cuckoo - but is, in fact, a sob. It slithers out of his mouth, against his will.

"I'm sorry," he gasps out, as more cries fight their way loose of his throat.

Jack says, "For what?"

For imagining you here. For not stopping them from making you a host. For being glad it wasn't me. For kissing you back. For imagining the whole damned thing. "For being such a head case."

For almost wishing it were real, all of it, because at least then he wouldn't be locked in a padded room, a casualty of his own delusions. At least he would've actually said those words, the ones he can't say now. At least then that press of lips would've been real, too. Another sob tries to push out of his mouth, but he bites down on it, viciously, like he wanted to do with the other snake, before. He ducks his head, rubs again at his eyes, and tries to hold the trembling parts of himself together.

the end

_"I have felt the wind of the wing of madness pass over me." - Charles Baudelaire_


End file.
